


Sign Your Name Away

by jotunblood



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Birching, Blood Kink, Boot Worship, Come Eating, Cunnilingus, Enemies With Benefits, F/M, Face Slapping, Fingerfucking, Hair-pulling, Light Angst, Manipulation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Power Imbalance, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 01:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17111639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: Michael comes knocking, Cordelia answers, and Myrtle isn’t sure which one of them is worse for it.





	Sign Your Name Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lionhearted7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionhearted7/gifts).



> This was meant to be a short kink fic, but the plot got away from me. It took over a month, but I'm pretty happy with it, and hope the friend I wrote it for is too! 
> 
> As always, let me know what y'all think, and thanks for reading!

“This is a girl's school,” Myrtle said.

The statement was unhelpful and horribly transparent. Cordelia ignored it, and kept stirring her tea. One sugar, a splash of cream, swirling down to nutty brown. It was a comforting process, and one she needed. It’d been a long, miserable morning, and the evening promised to be worse.

“I say this,” the older woman continued, “because you seem to have forgotten.”

“I haven't.” She tapped her spoon and sat it aside. “Langdon isn't here as a student.”

“He’ll be living on the grounds, sleeping on our sheets.” Myrtle paused, sucking her teeth. “You’ve even asked him to attend classes. What else would you call that?”

“A ward,” Cordelia said tightly. This conversation was getting old. “An arrangement we discussed, if you recall.”

In Myrtle's defense, that wasn't quite true. Cordelia had only spoken with her after the fact. By that time Langdon was already settling, not that he’d needed long. He'd stumbled to Robichaux's with only the clothes he was in, and even those weren't much. They were tattered and filthy; if Cordelia had to guess, she'd say he hadn't changed since they'd last met.

Barely a month had passed since their standoff over Mead. She hadn't expected to see him again so soon. In a year or so, maybe, after he'd gathered up allies. But that had been a misread, apparently. The man had come back, and done so alone. He'd been skinny, coarse with stubble, under eyes deeply bruised. He didn’t seem to have slept properly in weeks.

 _You look like shit_ , she’d said when she met him at the gate.

His grip on the bars went white. He’d also winced, which was disarming. Not as much, though, as the string of nonsense that followed. He'd changed his mind, didn't want to fight, and more than that, didn't want to be alone. She believed that last; impressive powers aside, the boy was useless without direction. Maybe even helpless, if his current state could be trusted.

_What do you think I can do about that?_

_Whatever you want. You're the Supreme._

It was a thrilling answer, albeit a childish one. She couldn’t do anything without his will to reform. Looking at him, she wasn't sure he had any. Resentment still rolled from him like smoke. He was a beacon of rage, but he was also defeated, and ultimately her responsibility. She couldn’t leave him outside. Not when he was so volatile.

 _If I let you in_ , she’d said, not missing how his mouth worked silently around the word ‘please’, _you don’t leave again until I say_.

It’d given him pause, but only for a moment. He must’ve been hungrier than she thought. 

“I’d just have liked to have been consulted,” Myrtle sighed, dragging Cordelia from the thought. “These types of decisions are better made as a group.”

“You were out.”

“For an hour. That wouldn’t have killed either of you.”

Cordelia frowned and snatched up her cup. She took a sip, swallowing through the burn. The tea was still steaming, but bought her time to think. Myrtle, as always, was an iron wall. She trusted Cordelia, but she was stubborn. It was one of her endearing qualities, in most circumstances. In this, however, it was losing charm. 

“I couldn’t just leave him at the gate.” She licked her lips, swiping away the drops of tea. “Not when he obviously needs help.” Myrtle rolled her eyes, but before she could interrupt, Cordelia hurried on. “You know it’s true. He’s been mismanaged. The boy needs some protection.”

Myrtle scoffed. “From what?”

“Himself. His influencers.” She sat her cup down, the base clanking on its saucer. “And anyone else that might misguide his development.”

The other woman’s eyes narrowed across the table, the lines around them cutting deep. It made her look older, infinitely more annoyed, and as always, made Cordelia feel small. But the expression softened quickly, and she waved her hand. Thankfully, Cordelia thought. She was tired of turning the ground.

“Who you take on as ward is your prerogative.” The woman pursed her bright lips, as if saying so had soured her tongue. “I’d just like you to be careful. If I catch him with one of the girls--”

“You won’t,” she interrupted. “I’ve made the rules abundantly clear.”

Myrtle didn’t look convinced. “Keep sharp, will you? For my sake, if nothing else.” She took her cup in hand, her glove popping against bone white. “There are worse things he could do than bed them.”

 

 

Michael Langdon didn’t have a room, exactly. None of the available ones would’ve been appropriate. Daughters weren’t entrusted to her to be bunked with strange men. Cordelia would’ve sooner given her own up than endanger them.

Thankfully, she hadn’t needed to. Off her suite was an old maid’s sleeper that’d stood empty for some time now. The woman that’d used it died years ago, and the position had never been refilled. There was no need; live-in staff was out of vogue. The women charged with keeping house now came and went. Langdon, however, wasn’t going anywhere. While he stayed, she preferred to keep him close. 

“In here?” he’d asked, incredulous, when she first unlocked it.

She didn’t blame him. The room was filthy. It hadn’t been touched since its previous occupant died. Cordelia hadn’t even been certain she still had the key.

“It’s not so bad.” Then, when his brow quirked: “Or won’t be, once it's clean.”

“You couldn’t have done that, I suppose.”

Her brow quirked, but she resisted the urge to snap back. She’d expected his docility to have a short half-life, but this was almost impressive. He’d only been in her care for a couple of hours. She thought he might wait until he’d been fed, at least.

“Call ahead next time, and I’ll consider it.” Her eyes swept the small space: the dusty floor, small clouded window, and all its cobwebbed corners. “Besides, it'll give you something to do before dinner.” The man grimaced, and she pressed on firmly. “Which you're attending, without complaint.”

He didn’t look chastised, but he also didn’t argue, which she supposed was good enough. 

Nodding through the door, she urged him inside. Langdon set his jaw. It was dark with stubble, and the skin beneath filthy. He needed a bath. Badly. It'd be kinder to excuse him from dinner for that, but she wouldn’t go back on it now. Michael was malnourished, and needed food as much as rest. Beyond that, he also needed to acclimate. She wasn’t going to let him haunt the school; if he was staying, he’d need to make appearances. The sooner he and the girls adjusted to one another, the sooner they could establish equilibrium.

“In,” she insisted, and this time he obeyed. He shuffled through and peered around to assess damage. His scowl deepened as the mess came into focus. “I’ll send for you at dinner. In the meantime, don't leave the suite. Understand?”

Michael turned on her, sucking his teeth. Close as they were, she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze, but that gave him little advantage. The ceiling hung low, forcing him to hunch. He curled in on himself, annoyed and uncomfortable. She could almost feel his resentment coiling tighter. Was he regretting this decision already? If so, there was nothing for it. He’d been lucid when he surrendered.

“I asked a question, Mr Langdon.”

“I heard you.”

“Then answer.” She took a step forward, crossing into the sleeper. “Do you understand me?”

Langdon tensed, but held his ground, and licked his cracking lips. She thought he might prolong this, make her ask again-- but no. The moment passed. His fists flattened passively against his thighs, and he broke their stare. His eyes cast down, signaling submission.

“Yes,” he muttered. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, get started.” Not turning from him, Cordelia backed over the threshold. “You're sleeping here regardless of how filthy you leave it.”

Michael snorted, muttered something unintelligible. 

She didn’t ask him to repeat it. 

 

 

The first night was awkward, as was the second. And third.

Really, the first month was a disaster.

Michael attended meals and class at her insistence, but to say that he was becoming socialized would’ve been an overstatement. He spoke to no one when he could manage it, responding only to direct, repeated questions. Even those he answered tersely, and with single words they had to rip from him like scabs.

The only thing that’d improved was his appearance. The first dinner was enough to restore his color, and when he was excused from it, he barricaded in Cordelia’s bathroom. He was still there when she returned over an hour after he’d disappeared. The water was still running, and steam rolled like fog under the door. He didn’t come out for another half hour, and when he did, the change was marked. Even damp, his hair curled bright, and his skin glowed warmly in the light. He’d shaved as well-- she made a note to replace her razor--, which took several years off his face.

He’d faltered at the sight of her, hand tightening on the knot in his towel. Which was, to her horror, the only thing he was wearing, and hung too low on his trim hips.

“Were you--” he began, then trailed off, tongued his teeth. “I shouldn’t have kept you waiting.”

Her eyes stuck on his collar. The bone there was sharp, and tempting to drag her finger along. If he were anyone else, she might’ve allowed herself. As it were--

“It’s fine,” she said. “You needed it.” She tore her eyes from the spot, closing the book in her lap. “You’re also going to need new clothes. I threw the old ones out.”

Michael’s brow scrunched. “They were all I had.”

“Someone’s coming by to fix that in the morning. I left some spares on your bed for now.”

“Spares of yours?”

The words were careful, but a teasing thread shot through them. Cordelia scoffed, and stood from her lounge chair. 

“It may surprise you, but I know a few men. Their clothes don’t always leave with them.”

“Why would that surprise me?”

His grip on the towel relaxed, and the hem slipped even lower. Her eyes caught on the starved flat of his belly, lingering before cutting back to his face.

“Go to bed,” she said, dodging his question. “I scheduled your fitting early.” He hesitated, and she didn't like how he looked at her. “Now, Michael.”

He waited a moment longer-- was he smiling? She couldn't tell--, then: “As you like.”

Turning from her, he disappeared into his sleeper. Cordelia watched the door close, and when light came through the gaps, she followed, locking it behind him.

She tried to ignore how he paced through the night, feet catching on every creaking board. And how more than once, the door handle jiggled, as though he were trying to sneak out.

The pattern held every night after. Langdon, apparently, slept fitfully. The fact had initially been an annoyance; Cordelia’s room was usually quiet. She could lie awake in it for long, dark hours without hearing anything but her breath. But with Michael only a dozen feet away now, her room buzzed with life. His bed rattled the wall when he tossed in it, and though he learned to avoid the loudest boards, she could still track him when he paced. Barring that, the man’s natural energy was impossible to ignore. Even when he laid quietly in bed, she could feel it spreading out. It ran under his door, gumming the gap, and darkened the far reaches of her room. The corners flanking it were heavier than ever, and she almost wondered if he’d found a way to project.

But that was impossible. Her room and Langdon’s sleeper were warded to the teeth. Once inside, there was no way for the man to slip out without detection. Which was comforting, and made his incessant pacing easier to ignore. 

It was anxious tick, and no more worth losing sleep over than the tapping of a foot.

 

 

The man was moody, combative, and unfriendly. He did little to endear himself to the girls. At best, he looked over their heads, and at worst, found something to pick at. A stutter in their abilities, or an anxiety he’d heard them whisper about. He turned anything he could into a knife. The habit was petty, and disruptive besides.

Cordelia wasn’t a fool. She’d expected some push back, especially once he’d recovered. And he had recovered; by the end of the first week, his cheeks and eyes were bright. A healthy weight returned to his waist, softening his stern look. Or rather it would have, if it weren't for his face, which was almost always twisted in a scowl.

An arrogant boy used to getting his way, the confinement was beginning to chafe. Whatever he’d expected when he came to the gate, being so heavily monitored wasn’t it. He was escorted between classes, meals, and the suite, and once there he was rarely alone. Cordelia made a point to only leave if he was bathing, and even then for only a few minutes. She kept his leash short, hoping to track his moods, find some pattern she could easily correct. She found none, however. He lashouts seemed senseless, good for nothing but making a point.

What that point was, she hadn't yet figured out. That he was powerful, maybe, or not easily broken. Whatever it was, it was beginning to annoy her. Cordelia didn't like wasting time. Michael had come to _her_ for help; she hadn't had to give it. Not killing him at the gate had been mercy enough. Everything after was supplementary.

She didn't regret taking him in, necessarily. In the absence of warlocks to entrust him to, the responsibility fell to her. Shirking it would've been gross misconduct, never mind how insufferable Langdon could be. He was in need of proper grooming and guidance, without which they’d all be doomed.

Such a fate was unacceptable for several reasons, not the least of which being that it was preventable. Langdon was salvageable product still. She'd just have to rethink her strategy. 

 

 

It came to a head in the middle of his second month. By then, Michael had given up fighting over classes. She escorted him still, but he didn't drag his feet. He dressed promptly and followed without complaint. If she didn't know better, Cordelia might assume he was settling.

 _If_ being the operative word.

“Zoe told me you made a scene today.” 

Michael smirked, the expression ugly, and didn’t bother responding.

They were in her office: a large, airy room, one wall faced mostly in glass. Noon sun flooded through, warming her back, though that was less comforting than usual. Michael was sitting opposite her, arms crossed and slouching in his chair. Cordelia had to resist barking for him to sit straight. There were other, more pressing issues than his posture. Langdon’s classroom disruptions had reached a pitch.

In his first few weeks, the incidents had been small: speaking out, or baiting the instructors. They were petty displays, and nothing Cordelia hadn’t expected, but she’d also expected them to end. Once Michael adjusted to life at Robichaux’s, she’d assumed he would quiet down. Constantly disrupting was a waste of energy, especially when he was being given access to class. The man could learn, if he allowed himself, grow his powers into something less destructive. But he didn’t seem to want to, and he hadn’t quieted down. If anything, he’d gotten worse.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“I can’t see why I need to. You said yourself: Benson already told you.”

“Zoe,” she corrected,“If you’re going to be familiar, be polite.”

Michael’s brow quirked, but he walked back. “Zoe, then.”

It was a small victory, but one Cordelia would take. She wanted the reins of this situation back. Langdon was proving more troublesome than she’d expected. If she wanted to justify keeping him, she needed results to prop it up.

“I wasn’t asking; I was being civil, a mistake I won’t make again.” Scooting her chair nearer to the desk, she rested her wrists on the ledge. She laced her fingers and straightened her back. “Tell me what you did.”

His tongue worked slow over the seam of his lips. For a moment, she thought he might not answer. But then he shrugged, sat up straighter himself.

“What she asked,” he said. “I transfigured the water in all of our glasses.”

“To what, exactly?” 

“Blood.” 

He said the word slowly, enjoying the sweet roll. Cordelia’s scowl deepened.

“Is that what she asked you to turn it to?” Michael shook his head. “Then I’m confused. I’m confused--” She paused, rapping her fingers on the desk. “--because a man your age shouldn’t struggle with simple directions.”

“I did follow directions.”

“You completed the task,” Cordelia allowed, “but your method was purposefully off. And why?” Wetting her lips, she locked eyes with him. “Were you hoping to impress or scare them?”

He didn’t answer-- confirmation enough. He wouldn’t have made a scene otherwise. Breaking their stare, his eyes cut down to the desk, and his arms drew tighter over his chest. Encouraged, Cordelia pushed out of her chair and balanced her hands on the desk. She leaned over it, looming nearer.

“Look at me.” Michael did as he was told, chin tilting up without hesitance. “Those tactics won’t work. You can’t intimidate my girls.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Her fingers curled against the desk. “Pardon?”

“You heard me, dearest Supreme.” He set his jaw, and his arms fell aside. Gripping his chair, he pushed up straight. “You fuss too much for your alleged level of faith. I think--” He paused, swiping his lower lip, which had taken a light tremble. “I think that you’re afraid.”

She snorted. “Why would I be?”

“Because my power is growing, and yours?” He raised a hand, mimed a flatline. “You’ve peaked, and there’s only one way left to go. Sooner or later, they’re bound to notice.” Carefully, as though not trusting himself, Michael raised out of his chair. Keeping his eyes on hers, he rested his hands on the desk. “And you’re expecting it to be sooner. I can smell the fear of it on you.”

“Enough,” she said, but the man didn’t listen. He’d hit his stride, it seemed.

“You think if you can’t bring me to heel,” he continued, “they’ll notice your powers are waning. And you’re right; they’ll start to whisper, wonder what about me--”

“ _Enough_ ,” she sneered, full of spit this time.

Her hand cracked across his face before the impulse registered. She heard the thwack, felt the sting break in her knuckles. She snatched her hand back-- hadn’t meant to, wouldn’t usually, but God, had it felt good. Langdon had done nothing but spit on her hospitality, and seeing him stumble soothed her pride. Jarred by the force, he rocked aside. His eyes were wide when they cut back to her.

“Cordelia--”

She cut him off with another smack. The back of her hand landed hard on his cheek, her ring catching skin. It cut below his eye and he yelped, fingers darting to check it. While he dabbed the spot, Cordelia sniffed and drew back for good. She wouldn’t hit again; the point was made. Besides, her hand was trembling. Not terribly, but a shake was in the tips. She needed the press of something solid.

“Let me remind you of your awkward position,” she began. “You’re here because you asked to be. You came to my gate, pathetic and defeated, and begged for a scrap of mercy. Did I have to give it to you?” He shook his head. “Answer properly.”

Michael winced. “No, ma’am.”

 _Ma’am_ was a shock, but she recovered quickly. If he meant to throw her, it wouldn’t work.

“And is there anything, other than model behavior, that’d oblige me not to throw you back out?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Only, you haven’t been on your best behavior.” It wasn’t a question, but Michael shook his head. “So it’s down to mercy again. Tell me, Mr Langdon--” She dug her nails in the wood. The tremble in her fingers had peaked, and she didn’t want him to see the stutter. “Do I strike you as someone with an abundant supply?”

His jaw worked, the muscles jumping, and his brow drew tight. For a moment, his eyes seemed over wet. He was remembering something, and she could guess what. She wondered if this would backfire. There was no time to walk back on it, though. He would bend to it, or he wouldn’t.

“No, ma’am,” he said finally.

The repetition was soothing, and Cordelia swallowed around her dry tongue.

“Then I’d suggest not putting me in this position again. There are worse things I can do than hit you.”

His eyes cut to her hand, and something flashed in them: trepidation, and something warmer. Earnest, keen, and so momentarily naked that the deep reaches of her gut roiled. The man looked less terrified than he did relieved, and fussed with the wound below his eye. He felt out the edges of a blooming bruise and pressed, as though he wanted to deepen it. Which couldn’t be true. Langdon was untouchable: pretty, but floating out of reach. She doubted her hit had any effect beyond jarring him, and that was fine. That was all she needed.

“Have I made myself clear?” Michael nodded, and though he tore his attention from her hand, it stayed low. “Get back to your room then, and shut the door. I’ll come get you after you’ve had time to think.”

Michael turned for the door without hesitance, shutting it on his way out. 

She waited for his steps to fully recede before falling back in her chair.

 

 

Langdon spent the following month forcing her to reconsider his domnitability.

Several times a week he’d request an audience in her office, not waiting to be sent for or summoned. He’d come midday, take a seat across the desk, and begin rattling off minor infractions. Arriving late to class, snipping at the instructor, or wandering the grounds unsupervised; things that hardly registered, given how desensitized to his antics the house had become. Anything less than a full blow tantrum was typically ignored. Had he not come to confess, Cordelia never would’ve found out. Which begged the question--

“Why are you telling me this?”

Michael shifted in his chair, then shrugged. Which wasn’t an answer, but the way his eyes caught on her knuckles might’ve been.

It was ill advised. Cordelia knew it. This tit-for-tat made a razor’s edge. There was little room for error when dealing out corporal punishment, especially for something as minor as tardiness. Michael was a tight wad of nerves, and she wasn’t sure prodding him was wise.

Still, the results were undeniable. Since she’d given in, his offenses dropped off sharply. 

There’d been no more blood in tubs and cups, or coming to blows with his instructors. He had fewer outbursts at dinner and in her suite, and had even stopped pacing his sleeper. He was quieter; still himself, but less vicious. His quips were less full of teeth, and though he was still an insufferable brat, he spent less time baiting for fights. 

That was due entirely to the fact that he burned his energy up baiting her. But that was preferable, and controllable. His flare-ups were contained in her, snuffed down to a candle’s breadth. He trembled and huffed, wept if she kept him long enough, and she did like to keep him, she found. Liked backhanding until his face was splotchy red, bruises threatening the sharp cut of his cheek.

She didn’t have an excuse. There was nothing in it for her; beyond the obvious, and that was becoming undeniable. She enjoyed it. All of it, down to how her knuckles ached. Mostly, though, she enjoyed watching him crumble. His full lips were sweeter when they trembled between his teeth, his eyes brighter glassed over with tears. He was pretty like this, malleable and tender, and being the cause of it swelled her ego. Cordelia felt powerful when he flinched, and stronger still when he forced himself to stay still. He wanted to be good; desperately, deeply. 

He only needed someone to make him. 

 

 

“Michael has been unusually quiet,” Myrtle said with deceptive disinterest.

The tone didn’t fool her. She adored Cordelia, but hadn’t brought her to lunch to chat. They could do that at Robichaux’s in the comfort of their rooms. This was a status check. 

“He has,” Cordelia agreed. She tapped the flat back of her fork, and considered her next words carefully. Michael’s current behavior was a marked improvement, though she doubted Myrtle would approve of her methods. It was better, she thought, to skirt around them. “Not perfect.”

“Heavens, no, but it’s improvement. I may owe you an apology. I wasn’t sure you had taming the little brat in you.” 

The woman stirred her soup. It was cold, pale pink. Strawberries, mint, lemon, and cream. It smelled like summers when she and Myrtle both were younger, weighed down with less responsibility. She’d bring Cordelia here at the peak of Fiona’s moods, and they’d share a chilled bowl as a treat. It was a tender tradition that they maintained even now. A second spoon rested on the rim for her.

“I am curious, though,” the older woman continued. “How are you managing it? The boy is uncommonly stubborn.”

Cordelia poked at the remains of her salad. “I keep a close watch, like you suggested. We meet to touch base several times a week.”

Myrtle hummed. “Yes, your meetings.”

Cordelia didn't like how she lingered on the word. Her and Langdon's visits were public record. Not the contents, of course, but that they happened were no secret. She had them with all of the girls.

“I meet with all my students,” she reminded the woman. “I know he’s just a ward, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt.” She speared a dark spinach leaf and dunked it absently in oil. “Though I admit, I didn’t consider his gender. If you think it’s inappropriate to--”

“That isn’t what concerns me.” She sat her spoon against the bowl. “I’d never accuse you, dear--”

“Of what?”

Myrtle's pursed her bright lips. “During these meetings, you discuss his progress, correct?” Cordelia nodded. “Can you say honestly that’s all you do?”

Beneath the belt of her dress, her stomach drew in knots. “What are you asking, exactly?”

“Why he leaves your office bruised and bleeding. Don't deny it.” The older woman's gloved hand was up before Cordelia could even think of doing so. “I've seen it myself. You're neither of you very subtle.”

Cordelia swiped the backs of her teeth. The taste of berry lingered there, its sweetness offsetting the tension. Myrtle hadn't so much as blinked in minutes.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something truthful, preferably.” The woman snatched up her water flute. “Is he really so unmanageable that you have to beat him? If that's the case--”

“It isn't,” she interrupted. “It's...” She trailed off, considering that this might constitute breach of privacy. Then again, Langdon belonged to the house. “It's helping him,” she settled on. “He requested it.”

“Requested,” she repeated, the word coming dry.

“You don't believe me.” Myrtle waved off the fear, and Cordelia scrubbed her face. If that was the case, what was the point of this? “What do you suggest, then? That I stop? Michael's never been this agreeable.”

“I'm only suggesting that you proceed with caution. Effective as this method seems, you can’t rely on it forever.” Myrtle swirled her glass, making a whirlpool in the water. “It’s too likely to become a crutch.”

“For him?”

“And you. Don't enslave yourself to force. You aren't a man; you don't need it.”

Cordelia bristled, but didn’t argue. She went back to jabbing her salad.

“Promise me,” Myrtle said after a beat.

She grimaced, and gave her word.

 

 

She hadn't lied to Myrtle, exactly. She just kept adjusting the timeline. The woman was right; she couldn’t beat him into submission indefinitely, but what she could do was ride the luck. Regardless of whether the plan would work forever, it was working now. There was no sense in abandoning it while it still functioned. 

Besides, Michael was getting creative.

“This isn't sanitary, you know.” She looked down at the freshly harvested rod Michael had lain across her knees. “Ideally, it’d be soaked and treated first.”

He didn't answer, not that she'd expected him to. He hadn't spoken since he'd presented the stick. He’d selected it himself, stripped it from a birch in the courtyard. Madison was meant to be watching him, but he’d slipped her grip to collect it. 

“Even then you run the risk of infection.” She took it in hand and stroked the length, feeling out rough patches. Her skin snagged on several and the woman grimaced. Striking out with it would break skin immediately. “Are you sure you want to use it?”

“Yes,” he muttered, not meeting her eye. 

His attention stayed fixed on her boots. It was an alluring position, made better by the fact that he was kneeling and stripped of his shirt. She hadn’t asked him to do either-- wouldn’t dream of it, especially not in her suite. This building tension toed improper even in her office. With her bed in sight, it was obscene.

“Very sure? There are safer replications.”

“I don’t need a replication.”

“What do you need?”

The man swallowed audibly, but didn’t respond. Typical. It’d kill the brat to give her satisfaction.

No, that wasn’t fair. He might not be being difficult. It was possible he was frightened. Were their positions reversed-- but no, she’d never risk this. She wouldn’t bare herself and whine to be beaten. Fear would outweigh any sticky sensuality; she’d never trust him not to flay her alive. And Langdon must, or at least want to. He’d offered up his skin freely. It was cream pale, unmarked by anything.

Her fist drew tight. She wanted to ruin it.

She transferred the birch to one hand, and with the other pushed out of her chair. Michael turned his chin up, and she bit down the urge to crack him across the throat. 

“Have you ever taken one of these?”

He shook his head, and she laid the point on his shoulder, keeping it there as she rounded. It gave him a point to track her by, for which he seemed grateful.

“I didn't think so.” If he had, he'd have taken her up on substitution. “They can leave scars, you know. I have some.”

The admission threw him. “How old?”

“Fifteen years.” She tapped the switch against his shoulder. “Last chance. I won't ask again.”

He shook his head against her warning. Cordelia sucked her teeth.

“Fine.” She dragged it down his spine, letting him feel the unfinished spurs. “We’ll start with ten.”

His snort was derisive. “That’s not going to--”

She cut him off with a full, open swing. It was a mean hit, admittedly, but his self-assurance was irritating. She wanted to crack his root. The man didn’t disappoint. Unprepared as he was, he failed to swallow his yelp. His back bowed under the nasty hit, and his hands drew to fists. The line of impact ran crooked over his shoulders, points of it prickled with blood. Little cuts dug out by his improper stripping. They’d teach him to be more thorough.

“Quiet,” she said. “Unless you’re counting, and you might want to.” She struck out again, striking the low sling of his hip. “It’ll help keep you focused.”

She took her time with the rest, spacing to keep the sting keen. Some to his lower back, and, after having him put his hands behind his head, either wrap of his ribs. He cussed louder against those, teeth gritting like stone, and she softened her swing in response. The skin there welted furiously and bled more freely than his back. Not a quick flow, but fat, slow slugs. Pretty.

“Two left. Can you take them?” 

Adjusting her grip, she laid the switch against his shoulder. He jumped, but relaxed when no pain followed. He swallowed audibly; it was relieved, and wet. Was he crying? She wouldn’t blame him.

“You can say no. Give me something else, and I’ll commute them.”

The man thought a moment. Or rather, feigned doing so. Likely he was only catching his breath. His shoulders shook and his head hung low, pressed down by the weight of his hands. His arms must be numbing.

“I can take them,” he assured.

“You think so?” He hummed his assent and she cooed. “Brave boy.”

The tips of his ears flushed and he made a fist in his hair. Which was...interesting, considering how he shifted. Michael had been rocking his knees apart since they’d started; at first, she’d assumed as a distraction. Knocking against the floor would’ve been a good counter. Only he hadn’t been knocking, he’d been spreading. His legs were wide and accommodating now, and his breathing oddly labored. It’d lost the frantic edge, but still pittered out of time. A familiar, muggy cadence.

“Exceptionally brave, actually. It must hurt.” She dragged the switch down his spine again, let the spurs catch his welts. The man hissed, bowing away from the contact. “You won’t be able to lean back for days. I wonder--” The rod twisted to widen a little cut. “--what’re you going to tell the girls?”

He shook his head, jostling curls. “I won’t tell them. I swear it.”

She hummed low, said _good boy_ , and he whimpered like he’d been stabbed. Her gut knotted, and she dug the rod in harder.

“You’re enjoying this.” He tensed. She could almost hear him thinking of some convincing way to deny it. “I know you are,” she continued, not giving him the chance. “How long have you been hard?”

He hesitated, but only a moment. “A few minutes,” he bleated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

She laughed, hoping to sound vicious.

“Pathetic. But, I suppose you can’t help it. You’ve been following the rules, yes?”

He nodded again, and she believed him, if only because he had no prospects.

“You must be getting desperate, then. It’s been months. I can’t imagine your hand is still cutting it.” She snatched the switch back and circled to face him again. His head stayed low, but his attention burned her boots. “Or have you even bothered with that?”

She stepped carefully between his knees, letting her attention wander there. He was hard; horribly so. The swell of his cock tented his pants. The toe of her boot came to rest near it. If he shifted, he could rut against it. But he wouldn’t, she guessed. He looked too mortified.

“You haven’t, have you?” He shook his head, and spread his knees wider. “Why not? It wasn’t a rule.”

He didn’t seem to have an answer, not that it mattered. What mattered was he’d imposed a limit. He’d set a goal and stuck to it bitterly. He might be salvageable, after all.

“Well,” she continued. “Whatever the reason, I expect you to keep it up.”

He turned his chin up at that. “What?”

“Don’t act surprised.” She lowered the switch, let it brush his inner thigh. “You’ve proved that you don’t need it.”

His eyes lost some of their hazy glass. For a moment, she thought he might fight her on it. But it passed almost instantly, and he lowered his gaze. Demure, almost. Manageable. 

“Two more,” she reminded him. “Here, and here.” She tapped against either thigh. He swallowed hard, and his cheeks lost color. She sighed, and ceded ground. “Through the fabric, since you’ve been a good sport.”

That seemed to settle him. “If you want.”

She _did_ want. This, and several things, but now wasn’t the time to entertain them. The ground between them was shifty still. It wouldn’t do step until it settled. Too much would send him spiraling again, and she needed his cooperation too much to risk it. 

“Relax,” she instructed. “And keep breathing. Impress me, and I’ll run you bath.”

 

 

Langdon found his center in their suite.

No, _her_ suite. He was only a guest in it. She had to keep reminding herself.

He didn’t come uninvited to her office anymore. He made appointments or waited to be sent, and instead laid his weakness by her bed. Which was intoxicating, and unspeakably dangerous. What before had been a line was now a smear. Her obligations and his want were getting tangled. If she wasn’t careful, the knot might choke them both. Or worse, Myrtle would find out. 

It was stupid, hardly worth the risk, but Cordelia couldn’t bring herself to stop. Because Michael was a deep, dark well of needs, and each one made her knees ache.

She never knew what he would ask of her. His interests oscillated wildly. Some were tender, almost childlike, and others made her cunt throb and ache. Whether he saw her as a mother or lover seemed to vary by the day. That, or both were so conflated in his mind that he saw her as both at once. Either was likely, and it didn’t matter anyway. Having him scramble for her attention made her wet. 

He might want to brush her hair, or be whipped, or read to; to sit at her feet, or join her in the shower. That last was one of her favorites. All of his wants had their merits, but none made him sweat as much as this.

He didn’t fuck her there; didn’t fuck her anywhere. She wouldn’t allow his cock that much attention. She still hadn’t given him permission to come, and while she trusted his resolve, she wouldn’t strain it. She wanted to bolster him, not set him up for failure. Besides, he hardly seemed to miss it. 

He whined, of course; bleated, begged, but there was no intention to it. He only seemed to need to speak to keep his head. Which was fine, really. More than. She loved hearing him trip over his tongue. The litany of cusses and _please ma’am, may I please_ set a slow drip of want in her gut. He was perfect like this: naked, wet, one hand skimming up to pin her hips to the tiles. Obedient and thorough; almost painfully so. Denial had sharpened his focus, and he milked her for release viciously. His soft mouth and thick fingers wrung her out like a rag, pumping until his chin dripped slick. He’d keep her pinned until she clenched around him dry, and even then she’d have to drag him back. 

Fisting his hair-- longer now, curls loosening to waves-- she’d tear him back and twist his head up. While she caught her breath, she’d allow herself to admire the ruin of his face. His cheeks would be flushed, forehead sticky with sweat, chin smeared with spit and her cunt’s drool; eyes hazed and empty, his abused mouth open on a shuddering echo of her moans. Deep, aching things, and so sincere that she’d worry-- but no. When she peeked down, he’d still be hard.

“Should I let you?” she asked once.

Michael’s brow scrunched. “Let me what?”

She slid her foot between his legs in answer, tracing her toes along his thigh. When they bumped the seam she shifted her weight and dragged her sole along the length. He hissed, rolled into the soft flesh, and she tightened her grip on his hair. Grabbing near the roots, she tugged his head back, forcing his dirty chin up. It was tacky with her release, and she used her free hand to smear it over his cheeks. 

“You want to, don't you?”

He didn’t give an answer, but she found one in how frantically he rocked. He beat against her foot, whimpering with each press. Oversensitive, panicked, slipping.

“Ask nicely,” she cooed, “and I might allow it.”

 _Might_ wasn't a fair thing to say. She had no intention of finishing him. He was enchanting like this-- rutting like a beast-- and she wasn't ready to give it up. She'd like to hear him ask, though, see how creatively he could beg. But he must’ve scented it, because his pattern broke. His hips stuttered to a stop and he swallowed loudly, took a moment school his breath. Then he cupped her ankle, guided it back carefully, and shook his head against her hold.

“No.”

Though it trembled, there was a hard edge of satisfaction in his voice. Cordelia laughed, genuinely surprised, and relaxed her hold on his hair.

“Maybe next time, then.”

 

 

 

“Has it occurred to you,” Myrtle said tightly, “that you might be playing into his hand?”

Cordelia tapped her pen against the desk. She didn’t want to have this conversation. She also hadn’t wanted to be barged in on while she and Michael were compromised, but it seemed that neither knocking or letting her off were on Myrtle’s lists of interests that day.

There were worse ways she could’ve found them. Thankfully, the man hadn’t been naked. He’d come to her office to deliver a stack of papers-- a project Zoe had been working on. Michael had seen her scratching notes for it weeks ago and wormed into her graces by asking questions. It was some new theory on transmutation; dull work, by the sound. Cordelia had never been overly academic. Zoe’s work often teetered on incomprehensible, but Langdon seemed capable of keep pace. The two chatted about it almost daily while it was in progress, and after completion, he’d encouraged her to pass it up. 

He’d even offered to deliver it, which would’ve been a friendly gesture had it not so quickly turned self-serving. Apart from citing it as the reason for his visit, she and Michael hadn’t discussed the paper at all. He’d laid it on her desk, then seemed to forget it, and the reason quickly became apart.

 _Have you always had those?_ he’d asked her. His eyes were sticking to the ankles of her boots.

 _No_. She’d unbent her knee to put one on display. The leather was supple, well oiled, and dark. It spat back light when she rolled her ankle. _I found them in town last week. Do you like them?_

He’d nodded, then went silent, admiring the snug fit, trim ankle, and thick, tapering heel. His attention lingered longest on the severe point of the toe, and when she tapped it, his tongue swiped his lips.

_Did you want something?_

The question spurred him, and he’d lowered to his knees as if commanded. Without waiting for permission, he scooted nearer and let his fingers ghost over the boots. He traced the creases at the ankle, dipping his fingers inside. When the material parted, she bit her lip, thinking of how those fingers felt spreading her folds. It was the reaction what he’d wanted, apparently, because he smirked up before kissing her ankle. His tongue replaced his fingers, swirling through the creases before working a long, slow strip down to the toe. When he reached the point he kissed it, open mouthed and wet.

Which was the precise moment Myrtle had entered. She came unannounced and without a knock, not unlike how Michael had strode in. His discourtesy seemed to be catching, as was his temper.

 _Be good now, Michael, and run along_ , the woman had said, falsely sweet. One hand was tapping against her thigh, and her eyes were narrowed hard on Cordelia. _Your mothers have something to discuss._

“What hand?” Cordelia asked finally. “You’ve seen it yourself, Langdon has--”

“Settled?” she interrupted. “Been domesticated? Rather quickly, don’t you think?” 

“My methods are effective.”

Myrtle barked a laugh. “He has his hand around your throat.”

Cordelia’s grip tightened on the arm of her chair. She hadn’t left it since Michael was dismissed. Myrtle’s presence was stifling, her energy swirling violently as she paced. She hadn’t seen the older woman so angry in some time.

“Have you considered,” she continued, voice curled as tight as her fists, “that he’s doing this as a distraction while he schemes?”

In spite of herself, Cordelia scoffed. “Schemes to what? He can’t leave the grounds.”

“To overthrow you, sweet.” The pet name clashed with Myrtle’s bitter tone. “He doesn’t need to leave to do that. All he needs is to garner sympathy, and you’ve provided ample ammunition.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a small school, Cordelia.” She took a slow breath and uncurled her fists. “How long do you think this affair can escape notice?”

Not indefinitely; she’d always known that. There was no keeping secrets here long. And when it breached surface, it’d be a small scandal-- Michael had an adversary, after all. Still might be, if she didn’t play her hand right. Even considering that, however, Myrtle’s reaction seemed overblown. Langdon was an adult, and outside the academic structure. 

“I haven’t done anything illegal.”

“So you say,” the woman allowed. “But what if he says differently?”

Her nails cut half moons into the wood of the arm rest. “What are you insinuating?”

“He leaves your room bleeding, bruised, and lashmarked. Sometimes he won’t be seen out of it for days.” The woman huffed and brought one hand up to cover the angry line of her mouth. It was shaking before it steadied against her face. “Who do you think they’d believe if he cried foul?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Couldn’t have, if she wanted to. Her tongue was gummed up behind her teeth. 

“I’ve only done what he’s asked for,” she said after a while. Or rather, she hoped she did. Her pulse thundered in her ears, made it difficult to hear. “And Michael, he--” she bit her lip, steadying its tremble. “He enjoys it. Enjoys _me_.” It was a naked addition, and before Myrtle could jab at it, Cordelia hurried on. “He wouldn’t.”

The woman sighed, expression softening, and she came to kneel at Cordelia’s feet. Where Michael had been only minutes ago, though Myrtle could never look so deferential.

“I love you; do you believe that?” She nodded without hesitation, and Myrtle patted her knee. “Then understand, I’m not saying this to hurt you. Michael hasn’t undergone any test we can trust. Neither of us knows what he _will_ do.”

Cordelia’s eyes burned, and she bit her cheek to balance out the sting. Irritation with the woman aside, Myrtle’s hand was a comfort, and she pressed her leg up into it.

“Your new lover isn’t a pet,” the woman continued. “He’s a jackal in a cage. I beg you to keep an eye on his teeth.” She paused, licked her lips. “Promise me, please.”

Cordelia set her jaw, and didn’t respond.

 

 

 

She didn’t leave her office until late that night, well after dinner had been cleared. The hall, when she slipped into it, was low lit and empty; no sign of any girls or Myrtle. No Michael either, but that wasn’t surprising. The man had been sent back to the suite. It was spelled against him still, and once inside, he couldn’t leave again without permission.

When she returned to her rooms she found him in her reading chair, a book propped on one knee. Naked knee, she couldn’t help but notice. The man had showered while she was away. He’d pulled on one of her dressing robes and knotted it in a show of modesty. False modesty. The material was too sheer, and sitting crossed legged as he was, it was hiked to his hips. It pooled there, barely concealing his cock, and split wide over his chest and belly.

“Is she angry with us?”

He didn’t look up from his book, which was fortunate. Her eyes were stuck on his exposed thighs. She could see lash marks peeking out there; most fading, though some rather fresh. She didn’t whip his legs often-- he bore it badly, so she reserved it for serious offenses. The last time was when she’d caught him fisting his cock after he thought she’d gone to bed. She’d striped him knee to hips for it, and he’d wept like a child. He’d given up fat, ugly tears, heaving breaths that ripped themselves from his chest.

“Cordelia?” She tore her eyes from the marks, and found that he was staring. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you heard, or Myrtle’s angry?”

“Both.” She shrugged off her coat and tossed it onto the bed before crossing to the chair. Michael made to stand, but she held up a hand. “Stay.”

His brow furrowed but he obeyed, settling back into it hesitantly. Tucking his hands under his thighs, he tracked her approach.

“I can take the floor.”

“So can I.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she hurried on. “I want to check something. Spread your knees.”

He did so without question, and balancing her hands on his knees, Cordelia guided herself down. She traced her fingers to the row of fresh lashes, and he hissed when she neared one. The muscle jumped, tensing tight. 

“Hush. Let me look.” Lightening her touch, she traced a nasty middle mark. It cut the creamy skin, leaving a deep scab that was sure to scar over. “Have you been using the cream I gave you?”

He nodded, and she leaned in to kiss the wound. It was close-mouthed and chaste, but he groaned anyway and shifted in his seat. The murky scent of arousal kicked up, and she knew he was already hard. The wretched thing so often was these days, though she supposed that was her fault more than his.

Ignoring the heady smell, she drew back to rest her chin on his knee. A familiar position, though usually the roles were reversed. Michael took it in stride, though, and even dared to rest a hand on her head. He smoothed back her hair-- timidly at first, though when she didn't pull away he worked in nails. They scraped her scalp, breaking gooseflesh, and fondness knotted her throat.

“Are you happy here?” she asked before she could reconsider.

“How do you mean?”

She chewed her tongue, giving herself time to think. It wouldn’t do to misstep now. Myrtle was right: the scant year Michael had been living under their watch wasn’t nearly enough. His moods were more predictable, curbed by her chokehold, but looking at him was like peering through smoked glass. She still wasn’t sure she’d seen him unfiltered. 

“You’ve had time to settle, attend classes, make friends.” He snorted, and Cordelia rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen you with Madison and Zoe,” she drawled. “Don’t deny it; it won’t impress me.”

Michael ceded the point and his hand slipped lower, bumping against her ear. He thumbed the shell then took the lobe between his fingers, rubbing the tender flesh. She allowed herself to enjoy the touch before dragging them back to the point.

“I’m just wondering if you regret signing your name away.”

Michael laughed at the phrase. When it registered, so did she, but it was a sharp, uncomfortable thing. She didn’t like to be reminded of the danger in this game, or the nature of the beast her legs had snared.

“I haven’t signed anything, mother,” he reminded. “I’m on loan until you’re finished with me.”

 _Mother_ was a filthy, toe curling word. She wished Myrtle hadn’t given it to him.

She also wished that, if only while she was the one kneeling, he’d do her the favor of being less sinister.

 

 

There were ways of wriggling oaths out of people didn’t involve taking them to bed. Cordelia had brokered dozens over the years, and very few had required anything lewd. But Langdon was stubborn, and beautiful besides; now a near nightly guest in her bed. Even if she hadn’t hoped to trip him into a pact, the evening would’ve gone roughly the same.

“Hoping to fuck the fight out of me?”

The tease was too full of air to bite. His ragged breaths puffed the hair clinging to his cheek, and the other was pressed hard into the sheets. Michael was lovely like this: pinned by her grip on his hair, pale back arched and ass swaying invitingly. His cock hung heavy between his spread, trembling thighs, dribbling freely from the slit. He still hadn’t come, and how long had it been? Over a year, which was undeniably impressive. Were their roles reversed, she’d have cheated long ago, but Michael hadn't seemed to consider it. He reveled in denial, or at least the praise it earned him.

_Do you like me better like this, Delia?_

Tonight, however, she needed him to spill, needed to take his oath with something visceral. If she wanted to keep him, and she did. Myrtle hadn’t brought up their confrontation again, but Cordelia still felt it buzzing between them. It numbed her ankles whenever the two were together, and if she didn’t act soon, it’d only mount. She couldn’t risk that, not for any pretty fuck. If it was a choice--

But it wouldn’t be. Cordelia didn’t intend to yield anything, least of all to Michael Langdon. He’d give her what she wanted, like usual, like always. Which in turn would allow her-- like usual, like always-- to give Myrtle what she wanted.

“Yes,” she answered finally. “Among sweeter things.”

Michael craned his neck against the bed. Cordelia relaxed her hold on his hair to allow the shift, and he peered back, bleary and suspicious.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to finish.” She wrapped her free hand around the toy fixed to her hips, stroked the fat, oiled length to slick her fingers. “Just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

He couldn’t get enough of an angle to track the glide, but the shift of her arm was unmistakable. He licked his lips, catching hair, then worked his knees a little wider open.

“How generous.” Another failed stab at teasing. She could hear the stutter in his breath already. He wasn’t sure if she was fibbing-- she couldn’t blame him. She’d done that before-- but the possibility thrilled him anyway. “What’s the occasion?”

She considered lying, but decided against it. This was a dirty enough trick already. 

“I need you to say a few words for me, and just to be sure of them--” She brought her sticky fingers to his ass, rubbed down the seam until she bumped against his entrance. Michael hissed, his opening fluttering eagerly. “--I’ll be taking what you give as insurance.”

He huffed a weak laugh and let his head fall back down. “How did I know it’d be something like that?” 

If he was annoyed, it didn’t stop him from trying to rock back against her wrist. She let him scrape the tender pucker against her nails, enjoying how his breath hitched when he hit a raw edge. It might be nice, she thought, to let him work a while: watch him sweat and pry himself open. His hole was flexing already, trying to draw her fingers inside. But his stance was knocked too wide. Even his most desperate roll only sucked her down to the first knuckle. It was nothing, really, the minor stretch doing nothing but sinking him deeper in fog. 

“Greedy boy,” she purred, and the echo of it rumbled deep in Michael’s chest. “Do you want help?”

He nodded, and she slipped her finger inside. She pressed in slow but unstopping, until her knuckles met the meat of his ass. He pulsed around her, hot and tight, and she gave him a moment to adjust. Not long; he didn’t need it. She often lavished attention on him here with her fingers and tongue, enjoying how his ignored cock wept inches away. 

“Still tight,” she muttered, starting up a slow pump. He forced himself to relax around her. “You really must only be fucking me.” She gave a few more thrusts then slipped out, circled the rim, watched it clench and bloom. “The other girls would ruin your ass. But I don’t need to worry, do I?”

He made to answer, but the word cracked when she pushed back inside. Two fingers this time, still slick from her toy, and once buried, she crooked them expertly. She teased his tender walls, stroked his prostate when she found it, and he spat a miserable cuss.

“I asked a question, Mr Langdon. Maybe you didn’t hear.” She pumped her fingers again, bumping the little gland. He clenched around her, and when she peeked between his legs, his cock was dripping. A thick slug of arousal hung and snapped, falling onto the sheets. She wanted to abandon the game suckle the spot clean. “Do I need to worry?”

Michael shook his head, seeming to have forgotten her grip. It tore his hair, and he whimpered in pain.

“No,” he grit out.

“No what?”

“No ma’am. You said-- _fuck_.” Her fingers slipped from his ass with a pop, leaving his pucker clenching around nothing. He swallowed audibly. “You said not to.”

“So I did.” She grabbed the base of the toy and guided it to Michael’s entrance. She nudged the slick, bulbous head against it, humming when it met no resistance. She left it there, half swallowed and stretching the tender ring of muscle. “And you wouldn’t disobey, would you?”

“I wouldn’t,” he whimpered, the words so tight that they made her own throat ache. “I haven’t, Delia, please--”

The name worked like a knife through her gut. She growled against it, and didn’t let him finish. She snapped her hips and popped the fat head through, shushing his keening cry.

“Easy. You’ve done this before, remember?” 

Breath settling somewhat, he nodded again, more mindful this time of her grip. After giving him a moment to adjust, she wrapped her sticky hand around his hip and eased him back. He hissed from the stretch, but didn’t tense, let her guide him until she was half sheathed. She rested a beat, eyes caught on how the toy pried entrance wide. The pucker was pink and flaring now; soon, it’d look thoroughly abused. The thought dried out her tongue, and she thumbed the point of his hip, sparking a nerve that made him wince.

“Good boy,” she muttered, more to herself than anything, and started up a languid pace. She kept shallow, letting him adjust to the girth and friction on his tender hole. When she felt him begin to loosen and scramble for the leverage he’d need to start rocking back, she snapped a little sharper, easing the last few inches in as he gave.

She was soaking through the toy’s harness in minutes. She could feel it, and smell it besides. The frantic moans Michael gave each time the toy bottomed out pierced the low reach of her gut. Her cunt throbbed in sympathy as she watched it split him wide, slip out the the tip only to plunge back deep. She could imagine the drag and aching pop of the head, and had to bite her lip to keep from moaning. Not that Langdon would’ve noticed. He’d gone limp against the bed. His back was still arched, deep and obedient, but his eyes were empty and glazed. His pretty hands worked weakly into the sheets by his head, and his mouth was open on a chain of groans. A dark patch of drool bloomed out from it, and his face was slick with sweat.

“Filthy thing,” she teased. “I bet you’re close already.” He gave an ugly groan, and his blush deepened. “Do you remember the rule for finishing?” She _tsked_ when he nodded, and snapped her hips hard enough to meet his. “Speak. Tell me what I asked you to do.”

He licked his lips, and swallowed hard. “Swear.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yes.” The word cracked, and he coughed. “Yes,” he tried again. “Anything.”

Before he could think to change his mind, Cordelia released his hip to fish behind her for her knife. When she found it she flipped it open, untangled her other hand from his hair, and sliced herself open along the palm. A long, deep cut that made her fingertips spark; she ignored it, and tried to keep pace. While she smeared her palm to coat it evenly, she made sure to keep Michael whimpering.

“Not until I say; understand?” 

Without waiting for a response, she reached between his legs with her injured hand. His cock twitched violently when she wrapped it, and his breath choked on a shattered groan. She gave one of her own, felt slick smear between her legs, and had to bite her tongue to regain focus. 

“I’ll make this easy,” she said, dragging her fist along the length. Blood slicked the way, and he rocked into the wet heat. “Three questions, yes or no, and I’ll let you finish. Can you make it?” 

“I think so.”

“Good.” She let her thumb swipe the head, and he mewled. “Do you swear, for the duration of your wardship, not to knowingly bring harm to my girls?”

“Yes,” he responded, and so quickly that she wondered if he’d even listened. 

“Do you also swear, for the same length of time, not to sow sedition or knowingly mislead them?”

That time he hesitated, though whether it was due to doubt or how she teased his cock was unclear. Her nail found a vein running thick along the belly, and she couldn’t help but dig a nail in.

“Yes,” he gritted out after a few moments, and she went back to lazily stroking the length.

“Last one.” She slicked back up to the head, catching it between her thumb and forefinger. Keeping it pinned, she drew patterns over the tip, and felt it gush precum with each pass. “Do you swear, for the duration of your stay, not to bring any harm to me?”

He gave a weak laugh, or maybe it was a sob. She couldn’t tell. His body shook with nerves. His hips worked furiously, trying to fuck between her fingers, and his wide eyes had gone dark, saw nothing. For a moment, he didn’t look like himself. He seemed strange, too large for the bed. His limbs were wrong, oddly jointed, and his face--

But it passed quickly. A trick of the light, or of the lust clamped around her throat like a fist. The man found his center by gnawing his raw lip, and gave his answer.

“I swear.”

She tightened her fist around his cock, and worked him in sticky, tight strokes. His hips snapped to meet her, offsetting her pace, but he didn’t seem to mind. His hands sharpened to claws on the mattress, and his face burned bright and red.

“Can I?” he asked, hardly a minute later, and when she wasn’t quick enough: “You promised.”

“Go on,” she cooed, thumbing his hip. “Show me how much you’ve missed it.”

His thrusts stuttered out of time seconds later. Eyes shooting wide, he gave a high, echoing groan, so loud she wondered if Myrtle would hear it in her study. She didn’t smother it, though, or shush the poor thing. She kept her hand moving, and milked him for sound. His cock twitched in her hand, pulsing fat streams of slick she tried to catch with the back of her hand. She didn’t need it all, but there was no point in wasting. Not when they’d both gone without it for so long.

When his groans edged on pain and he finally seemed spent, Cordelia pulled her hand out from under him. Doing her best to keep it level, she guided the toy slowly from Michael’s ass, watching enraptured as the full length slid free. When the head popped out, Langdon winced, finally collapsed onto his belly, but she didn’t let him rest long. She urged him to roll onto his back, and while he settled, brought her ruined hand up. Using her other, she swirled her blood with his spill, tinging the pearly slick pink. She muttered a spell, felt the smear spike hot, then licked a stripe of her palm clean.

“You next,” she said, coming to straddle his thighs. She made sure not to brush his tender cock. Settling just below his hips, she held her hand out for him. “Seal the pact, and I’ll draw us a bath.”

Michael looked between the filthy digits and her face, panting, eyes dark and unreadable. Not blue like she was used to. Something else had moved in, and she wasn’t sure she liked how it looked. His eyes were colder than they’d been in months, and foreign, almost.

The man shook his head, and the shadow cleared. His color returned, and Cordelia relaxed. Taking her by the wrist, he guided her hand to his mouth, and dragged the flat of his tongue through filth. He didn’t lick a straight line as she had done, instead followed the jagged path of her knife.

She felt the brief sting of his tooth catching the wound, and thought of Myrtle.

She hoped the woman hadn’t been right.


End file.
